First home buyer grant boost

We are eligible! We exchanged ON THE DAY that it came in.

YAAAAAAAY!!!

Last weekend’s motorised tragedies…

From now on, “newfriend” (nf) will be known as AJ as he really does deserve a name of his own.

Now gather round chillen as I unfold to you a story of great excitement and tragedy. It all begins last Friday night, at Hellfire. Went with some friends, and had a marvellous time, dahling. Danced much, got many many compliments (many from Master Tom every time he skooched past). Every other topless lady in the place whom I passed had to stop and rub boobies with me… which tended to attract large crowds of pleasantly courteous admirers. In fact, it is one of the nicer things about girl/girl displays: I think men are less likely to be dickheads and molest you because they’re afraid it will stop if they do. Tee hee! A few gentlemen came up and told me how gorgeous the whole thing was.

I had some lovely dances, and just generally felt gorgeous the whole night long, wearing only transparent panties and gold paint.

There was one (as always) dickhead guy who I ended up telling quite frankly to fuck off, and hitting with my tie. Then he tried to crack onto C, and we had to tell him again to fuck orf. Bleagh. That particular patron is always a problem and next time, I’m gonna get him chucked out.

Hanging out by the rack, AJ and I got talking to a hetero lady who’s getting in contact with her submissive side. Then as we left to go snoozy, I pointed to my cheek to request a kiss from her, and she gave me a peck. Then she beckoned me back and tapped her boyfriend on the shoulder “Hey watch this”, and gave me a kiss on the lips…but he wasn’t watching! He missed her first ever girly kiss. Silly boy!

We rode quickly home through the rain, and tumbled into a warm shower then bedsies.

The Next Day, However…

AJ drove his ute out to Mittagong, and I was left with the prospect of a leisurely day to myself. Ah what to do? I went to the hardware shop, the art shop, the modelling shop and I bought some supplies for a project. I got home, and laid down to plan. Not too long after, I got a call from an unknown number… its AJ! He’s in trouble! His ute packed it in 20 km this side of Mittagong, and he discovered that he’d left his wallet AND mobile at my house the night before. Oh dear! He hitched from there to his destination, and (because no-one was home), broke in through the side window and then rang around numbers he could remember till someone had mine).

Yes, yes, SUPER-ANNA will ride down to the rescue! Besides, it was nice sunny weather out.

So I “rug up” for the longest ride I’ve ever undertaken. Leggins, jeans and oilskins; a few shirts, jacket, scarf, and off I go. I didn’t wear nearly enough. About 50 kms down the road, I start to seriously FREEZE.

So I learn to go 80 km (learner speed limit), I learn to negotiate trucks, I learn to corner and I learn to put the exact toll in my pocket for the toll stations. I eventually make it to the ute, call for directions. I make it to teh rendezvouz and get an escort the last 2 kms, by which time my brain is non-functional from the cold!

When I pull up, finally, AJ walks around the back of my bike and remarks that my license plates appear to be absent. Hmmmm, they’ve broken clean off. So in addition to fixing the ute, he starts trying to construct a temporary plate for me while I stand stifly by the fire, thawing.

He gets a lift to the mechanic for parts, then back to the ute, and I stay warming up for a little while longer. After a while, I left and found him on the highway, and he tailed me to the first servo and (romantic) bought my petrol and promised me dinner out where ever I liked! Aw.

So after getting home, cold with back aches and frozen fingers, I clamber into bedsies and rest up for a while before dressing for dinner. We went to Zenobia, and were stuffed with lovely lebanese foods! Rolled home to sleep, feeling like the day was tiring, eventful and a little bit wasted because nothing went to plan or was really achieved.

Next morning, I was rudely awoken at 10am by a phone call. “Hello, this is Constable Darrel Doyle of the Mascot Police. Is that Anna Aniston?”. Whoa! WTF!? What do you say when the cops call to wake you? No, they hadn’t found my license plate from off the M5. It transpires that they have my motorcycle bag, which I’d put in AJ’s car the day before. Some kind soul had handed it in to them, after finding it in an alley. So we trek off to the mascot police station instead of doing other things with the morning… and AJ has to contend with a broken quaterpane and missing change from the ashtray. Little bastard theives didn’t take anything except $6 in change and my bag (which they dumped after taking my medication). But they had to break something to get it. Meh.

Kiss me, Kate

Something apropos from Bill Shakespeare…

The Taming of the Shrew (Act 5 Scene 2):

KATHARINA

Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:
It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,
Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,
And in no sense is meet or amiable.
A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labour both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks and true obedience;
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Such duty as the subject owes the prince
Even such a woman oweth to her husband;
And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel
And graceless traitor to her loving lord?
I am ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love and obey.
Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts?
Come, come, you froward and unable worms!
My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great, my reason haply more,
To bandy word for word and frown for frown;
But now I see our lances are but straws,
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,
That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.
Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,
And place your hands below your husband’s foot:
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready; may it do him ease.

I am no longer Katharina. Sorry to all those blokes who’re waiting for her to be free again. Go find another bitch on her hands and knees.

Bodypaint Costume @ Hellfire (May 2008)

Bodypaint Costume @ Hellfire

Originally uploaded by AnnaAniston

Thankyou so so so much to nf for the bodywork.

Wait till you see what June 2008 has in store for you.

Sore bottom!

Oh deary me… how much punishment can I dish out to my botty? I rode to Windsor today with nf. We started at about 8am-ish, rode through North Sydney until the wet weather turns us back to Petersham for warm clothes. Then back on the road to the Parklea markets… but we missed a turn somewhere and ended up at Windsor.

Riding all day, tried riding on higher-speed roads, with a little moisture on the roads too. It was fun!

Moral Panic

Am I too snotty to go out to Moral Panic tonight?????

Blah

I just don’t feel like telling you about how I feel right now.

Protected: The Beach

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

I feel sick…

… in the belly. Everyone asks “do you think you’re pregnant?”.

Yeah, sure. Its pregnancy. \/\/ateva. Is this the only way that the world can come to terms with me being a sexual adult?

I recently had a party and my sister got a bit drunk and started offering to give people pap smears with the ice tongs. That was hilarious. Our cousin wouldn’t hear of it: “in my mind, you are still 6 and 8″…then why was she mixing us cocktails?

Trust

I need a lover who will be with me when I need to be gentled. And who will meet my passions like a train smashing a suicidal virgin on the tracks.

Its terribly freudian to hark back to one’s childhood to explain one quirks. However, I have this image which haunts me lately. My sister and I are about 3 and 5, sitting on the makeshift lounge in the dusky dawn light. My parents are in the kitchen. Naked. My mother has the chef’s knife, and my father has the fish knife. They crouch, and slowly circle one another. The anger in the room is tangible, and I know that my father will lose because he is weak and my mother is strong. She has a reason to win. He has nothing, he is out of his depth in every way. I put my arm around my sister’s shoulder and we both sit in wait, not sure what event we are hoping for.

Twenty years later, I am kneeling between my two lovers as they engage in ideological warfare over my welfare. There is the irresistibly needy black hole versus the stifling nurturer. I feel sucked between them, pulled taut and unable to move. I kneel, still, barely listening to them. I begin to count all the knives in the house. Most prominent, the machete that I gave him when we first became lovers. The swiss army knife he gave me for my birthday. His swiss army knife. His leatherman multitool. A cook’s knife, fruit knife, blunt butterknives, plastic picnic cutlery. The sharpening block I taught him to use reminds me how sharp these knives are, because I made them sharp.

What landed us here was that she didn’t approve of my knives, of my cutting flesh into stripes, the gills that suddenly sprung up on my forearm. She’s here to tell him that. He’s here to tell her he doesn’t care. I’m here to kneel between them, wondering which one will win me in the end. Which one will I declare the victor? Which one will deliver me more of the intensity and damage I am in love with.

I count the knives. He gets angrier. She gets angrier. Will either of them break into a run to the kitchenette? Will I?

From the corner of my eye, I watch the long machete, and I become scared because my body is the battleground. I become excited because my body is the battleground. Annihilation is nigh.

But no. Neither of them could do it. Neither of them would do it. They had to have me wholly and separately. Neither would think to carve me up and scrap and cawl over the carcass. Neither of them would make love with the other over my bloody body. Winning, to them, meant taking all of the spoils rather than fighting well, hard and without quarter. The knives stayed undisturbed. The threat remained unspoken. The arguments remained ideological. I remained kneeling, frozen between them, unable to declare a victor.

I can’t trust someone who says he would never hurt me. I trust someone who could hurt me if he wanted to, who could hurt me if he needed to, if I asked him to. I can’t love someone who asks not to be hurt. I can only choose to act, and intentions mean nothing in relation to the consequences.

I won’t promise you a thing, but I hope you trust me. You haven’t promised me anything and I’ve no reason to be disappointed.